M is for Murder
by Anozira
Summary: A mysterious wonded man appears at a hospital with a strange mark on his body, and Holmes is thrown into a deadly investigation
1. A Nocturnal Visitor

_Please read! A limerick for your perusal:_  
Disclaimer  
This is not an original story,  
To sir Arthur belongs the true glory.  
So please don't sue  
Cause if you do,  
I'll cry, and then you'll be sorry!

_To prevent confusion, the narrator is NOT Dr. Watson. She is a new character of my own creation. Any resemblance to other characters in the cannon is purely accidental._

M is for Murder  
Chapter One: A Nocturnal Visitor

A hospital is an eerie place to be at night. When the normal hours end, all unnecessary light is extinguished to conserve fuel. Most of the doctors, nurses, and secretaries that keep the place running during the day go home, leaving the buildings dark and empty. It is a curious emptiness, though, for a hospital is never completely silent at night. The moaning of a sufferer can be heard at all times. During the day, the commotion created by the busy staff covers the sounds, but at night they hang in the air like the disembodied moaning of spirits.

Not surprisingly, there is always an argument at the end of the month over who will take over the night shift for the proceeding four weeks. My fellow nurses call it the "graveyard shift" and avoid it like the plague. For some reason, though, this foreboding atmosphere has never bothered me. There is something oddly soothing about the solitude to be found in a hospital at night. It is an atmosphere more conducive to work and quiet reflection than any other I have found. I am not a terribly social person and often keep odd hours, so in many ways I find the graveyard shift ideal. My colleagues are more than happy to let me have it, and so I spend the vast majority of my nights on duty at the hospital, waiting for the occasional emergency.

This was a particularly slow night. I passed the time sorting through the hospital records, absentmindedly organizing the ones that were out of place. While I did so, I thought about an article I had read in the _Times_ a few hours ago. A young man had been murdered during a robbery of a jeweler's store, and Scotland Yard was busy tracking down the culprit and avoiding the questions of the reporters. The article expressed a confidence that the investigation would be concluded shortly, but every word rang with false certainty, and I found myself wondering what had so perplexed London's finest.

The sound of a bell ringing cut through my meditations. I hurried towards the front desk where I found a boy vigorously pulling the chord that hung beside the door with such a force that I was certain he would pull it off if left to his own devices. "Can I help you, my lad," I asked soothingly.

"Please miss," he said so quickly it was more of a squeak than a plea, "there's a man outside and he's badly hurt."

"Did you happen to find him there?" I asked, more to calm him than out of any real curiosity.

"No miss, a man sent me here to tell you. He gave me a shilling." He showed me the coin proudly.

"And where is this man now?"

"He got into a cab and drove away." I digested this curious piece of information, while the boy stood nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Please, miss, the man needs help fast. He's been beat over the head something awful." He shivered and I wondered, with a sinking heart if a dead man waited for me on my doorstep. I followed the boy outside, preparing to be greeted with a dead body.

The man who lay on the hospital steps was not dead, but he was covered in so much blood that he soon would be if measures were not taken to stop the bleeding. I knelt down beside him and began a cursory examination, looking for broken bones that would make it impossible to move him. He had, indeed, been beaten roughly, and I could tell immediately that he had at least two broken ribs and a lump the size of my fist on the right side of his head.

I managed to move him carefully into a private room with the help of the boy and a stretcher. After giving the lad another coin to add to his collection, I sent him on his way and prepared to see to my patient.

Mercifully, the blow to his head had fallen just to the left of his temple, and therefore had not shattered the delicate bone there. He certainly had a concussion, but with any luck, it would cause no lasting effects. A washcloth and gauze did wonders for the appearance of his face. His features were sharp and angular, though swelling and a broken nose marred its beauty. I imagined when he was well he would be quite handsome.

He was a tall man, about six feet I guessed from the way his feet protruded slightly off the edge of the bed. He looked vaguely familiar. Where had I seen him before?

I turned to the bloody mess that had once been his shirt, trying gingerly to unbutton it. After a few fruitless attempts, however, I gave up and took a pair of scissors to it. Modesty is not a virtue in my profession, and frankly I have no use for it. Finally, I managed to completely remove the shirt, and gasped involuntarily. Now, the amount of blood on his clothing and the pavement outside made perfect sense. The skin on his torso had been slashed into four long diagonal cuts that crossed each other. The cuts created to x's that met at the top and bottom, forming a diamond in the centre. I shuddered at the gruesome inscription and allowed myself a moment to wonder what it meant while I continued to apply bandages, in a seemingly vain effort to stop the bleeding.

As I cleaned and treated the patient, a thought struck me. I had absolutely no idea who this man was. He had been dumped anonymously on the hospital steps in a very unorthadox—if not downright suspicious—way. He had been attacked with some intent, as evidenced by the strange mark left on his body. I searched his pockets for some indication as to who he was, but found nothing. His coat and pants were torn, faded, and generally in a horrible state of disrepair. He seemed to be a poor laborer, one of the thousands of unfortunates who clogged the pubs at this time of night, but something about him didn't seem to fit. I regarded his body for a moment, my hands continuing to do their work without the help of my brain.

Suddenly inspiration hit me. It seemed so obvious I wondered why I hadn't seen it immediately. He couldn't have been a laborer for his hands were covered, not only in blood, but in chemical stains. Stains I recognized well from my days as a student, but knew that no common laborer would have ever been able to acquire. What sort of blue collar worker played with highly combustible chemicals- chemicals that were, for that matter, only available to scientists and students?

_**To readers of "The Case of the Still Heart"**: Please forgive me, I have been struck by a deadly case of writer's block, so I'm putting it aside for a while. 14 page papers, existentialist plays in Spanish, and Rembrandt have conspired against me. So send me your good plot vibes (and some A+ vibes for the paper would be nice to!) and I'll try to get back on that sometime soon. (if you have any ideas, by all means send them my way)_

_**To new readers**: I LOVE reviews, criticism, comments, your thoughts, anything. Tell me what you think. Nit picks are just fine (I'll even try to fix them), flames as well, if you feel it necessary. Even a simple "I read this, just so you know" is greatly appreciated. I like to know who's out there. And of course, praise is more than welcome and will be rewarded with luck vibes and good karma._


	2. Unveiled

_Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes, Watson, or Lestrade. Although, technically they are public domain now, so all Arthur Conan Doyle can do about it is roll in his grave…_

_As always please review. Cookies and good karma to Hermione Holmes, my one and only so far. Thanks for being such a dependable reader, you are awesome! As for the rest of you, get reviewing!_

_Heads up! The narrator changes back and fourth here. Do you like it? Let me know if I should keep doing this. Ok, now on to chapter 2:_

Unveiled

Watson

I stared out the window at 221 B Baker Street, searching for the twentieth time that night for signs of my friend and comrade, Sherlock Holmes. In keeping with the other nineteen attempts, the search was fruitless. There was no one on the street whose figure even vaguely resembled Holmes's tall frame. I vainly tried to quell my misgivings by examining an old peddler who sold chestnuts to children that ran by. The peddler had only one leg, however, and it seemed impossible that even a man with Holmes's skill at disguise could have magically made his left leg disappear.

I have been long accustomed to Holmes's odd habits. He has been known to disappear for days on end, weeks in fact, and so it should not have worried me that I had not seen him at all in the past 24 hours. However, there was something different about this absence. He had left without informing me, or warning Mrs. Hudson that he would not be taking meals at home. His revolver remained in its place in his desk drawer, untouched. This discovery alone was enough to alarm me. Combined with the other facts of Holmes's disappearance, the situation became mystifying and vaguely sinister.

The street below swirled with thick fog. In the waning light of evening, the lamps seemed to be crowned in a halo of shifting, glistening yellow crystals. The people on the street were more forms and shadows than actual figures, and I had to look closely to discern them clearly. I shivered and went back to stoke the dying fire, banishing the morbid thoughts from my mind. I chided myself for being superstitious. "You're letting the weather cloud your logic" the voice of Holmes berated me in my head.

As I was settling down in my armchair to entertain myself with a book, I heard the bell ring followed by a quiet conversation and brisk feet on the stairs. There was a hurried knock on the door. Before I had finished saying "Come in" Mrs. Hudson burst into the room in a flurry of skirts. Her face was flushed and she was breathing heavily from the exertion of running up the flight of stairs.

"Good lord, Mrs. Hudson, whatever is the matter?" I asked, rising from my seat in alarm.

"Inspector Lestrade to see you sir." She announced rather anticlimactically, but her eyes betrayed her fear and anxiety. Lestrade stepped into the room behind her, and the expression on his face warned me that he did not bring good news. All at once, my fears for Holmes's safety flooded back to me, magnified.

"Please come in Lestrade. Does this have to do with Holmes?"

Lestrade regarded me with an apprehensive expression as he took a moment to catch his breath. "I was hoping you could tell me, Dr. Watson. I take it Mr. Holmes is from home?"

I nodded in confusion, my brain sluggishly trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. "Is Holmes hurt, where is he?" I asked a trifle sharper than I intended.

Lestrade took deep breath and launched into his explanation. "A short while ago a man was brought into St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He was brought in under…" Lestrade paused briefly, considering his words, "odd circumstances and had no identification. The nurse on duty contacted Scotland Yard in hopes that some means of determining his identity could be found."

"What has this to do with me, inspector?" I asked irritably, encouraging him to come to the point.

"Read the description the nurse gave of the patient, and you will understand." He handed me a thin piece of telegraph paper.

Chief inspector stop Patient received with no identification stop About 6 feet

tall, grey eyes, angular features dressed as a laborer stop Badly beaten stop

Request aid in determining identity stop

"Holmes" I said quietly.

"It certainly sounds like a description of him, doesn't it, Doctor?"

My brain had gone numb. How odd. I felt nothing except a sudden desire to get far away from the room, from Baker Street, from London. Unbidden, images of Holmes sprawled in a gutter, concussed and bleeding obscured my vision. I covered an ear with my hand in an effort to block out the horrible roaring sound that filled my consciousness, masking all other noise and thought.

"Have you been to the hospital?" my voice asked of its own accord.

"Not yet. I—that is the yard was hoping you would come and identify whether this man is indeed Holmes or not."

"Is he alive?" I was proud of how businesslike my voice sounded.

"I do not know, Doctor. I hope to God he is." Lestrade replied quietly, with more emotion than I had ever heard him use before.

Emma

The ringing of the bell alerted me that someone waited at the door. I silently cursed fate that had sent the other nurses and doctor on duty that night to see to a patient with a critical heart condition in another ward. They had been there most of the night, and I was left alone to oversee the usually quiet emergency facilities.

The men who waited in the lobby did not seem to be injured, however. The former of the two, a man with a small, ferret-like face, held himself in a manner that screamed "police." I wondered if I had accidentally stumbled onto a concussed criminal. It would explain the odd method in which the patient was delivered.

"Good evening, inspector, how may I help you?" I asked politely. He scowled briefly, then dismissed my minor logic game and turned briskly to the matter at hand.

"I have come to see the unidentified patient that arrived earlier tonight. I believe we may be able to offer information, if we may be permited to see him." His face betrayed a subtle, but powerful emotion as he finished speaking. Almost imperceptibly, his features seemed to fall, briefly taking on an attitude I can only describe as despair. I looked at him with pity, wondering if he knew the patient personally.

"Certainly, please follow me." I guided them back towards the room, navigating the labyrinthine hallways mindlessly. My thoughts were focused on the mystery patient, and the unexpectedly prompt appearance of Scotland Yard.

At the door to the room labeled "emergency" I stopped, turning back towards the two men who held the key to the mystery man. "He is unconscious, so you need not fear waking him. All the same, his condition is somewhat delicate, so I ask that you take some care." They nodded wordlessly and we entered the room.

"Dear god!" The second man's involuntary exclamation hung on the air adding a tense quality to the proceedings. He knelt down beside the bed, observing the patient's face closely.

"To say he has been 'badly beaten' is a bit of an understatement, nurse," the inspector said quietly, shock registering clearly in his voice. The hours had turned the patient's face into a mask of gruesome bruises. I agreed it was not a pretty sight.

"Who could have done this to him?" The second man wondered aloud. I seized on his words with excitement.

"You know who he is?"

"That," the inspector paused dramatically, "is Sherlock Holmes."

Of course! I knew he had looked familiar. With a lightning flash of recognition I linked the prone figure on the hospital bed to the stories and illustrations in _The Strand_. No wonder Scotland Yard had appeared so promptly. And if this was Sherlock Holmes, then there was no question of the second man's identity.

Dr. Watson turned to me with an anxious look in his kind eyes. "How critical is his condition?"

"He has suffered a concussion, a few bruised ribs, and severe blood loss, but he will recover." He nodded at my explanation, examining the lump on the side of Holmes's head gently with his fingers.

"There is something else you should see." Gingerly I removed the blanket and lifted the hospital shift to reveal his bandaged torso. The wounds had saturated the bandage with blood. I carefully snipped it away, exposing the odd cuts to the air.

There was silence in the room as the inspector and Dr. Watson regarded the violent insignia.

"Does this mean anything to you, Lestrade?" Dr. Watson asked.

"I have never seen such a sign before." The inspector replied.

"The attacker signing his name?" Dr. Watson shuddered.

"It's an odd symbol for a person's name" I pointed out.

"Indeed," The inspector agreed with me, "In all my experience, I have yet to meet a criminal with the initials X.X."

"And yet, it's clear that the cuts were deliberate. The lines were cut with extraordinary precision. See how the depth is always the same? They are perfectly straight, and meet perfectly in the centre." I followed one of the cuts with my finger, hovering in the air just above it, tracing the long incision to where it met another line and continued on at an almost perfect 45 degree angle.

"Most curious," Inspector Lestrade muttered. He tore his eyes away from the macabre signature as I replaced the blankets. He turned towards the door, his shoulders slumping. "I suppose I shall have to begin investigating immediately," he said wearily, "You have no idea where the crime was committed?"

"No, I do not." I hated to dash his hopes of garnering clues from me. It would not be an easy investigation for him, with no information about the crime except the outcome. I decided to temper the bad news with a little hope of my own. "I expect he will awaken sometime tomorrow afternoon, if you would care to come back and question him."

"Yes. I shall have to." He turned to go, waiting at the door for Dr. Watson.

The Doctor looked to me with a question in his eyes, "I feel that I should…that is I would like…if I wouldn't be in the way…"

"You may certainly stay here the night, Doctor, if it will put your mind at rest. I will give you a bed in the next room over, if it will suit?"

"It will suit me perfectly, thank you. You are most considerate." He sounded relieved that I had read his mind, so to speak. His embarrassment at his delicate request evaporated in the face of his greater concern for his friend's welfare.

"It is no trouble at all, Doctor, I assure you. I will be right back to take you to your room. Come inspector, let me show you out."

When all had, at last, been settled to the satisfaction of all involved, I went back to the Emergency room. "I am checking on the patient," I told myself, though really it was curiosity that brought me back to that room. So this was the great man I had read about. I studied his unconscious form for a minute, and was struck again by his unusual features. Certainly his face was mottled and swollen from bruises and cuts, but underneath the injuries of the attack, his features were angular and chiseled. He reminded me of a Greek statue in a way, though he made a somewhat disheveled ideal man. The angularity of his features and the musculature of his body reminded me of the stony perfection of a Zeus. The moonlight on his face gave his skin an alabaster shine, adding to the effect.

I steeped back, suddenly. These were not the impassionate thoughts of a professional. I cleared my mind in quickly, reinstating the impersonal mask of the nurse. "This man is my patient and I must care form him as such." I told myself firmly. My chastising words sounded more like my father's scolding than my own voice. I checked his vital signs and hurriedly left the room.


End file.
